


I ain’t lookin’ to fight with you

by Zyllaqua



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Insecure Enjolras, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zyllaqua/pseuds/Zyllaqua
Summary: “I was wrong, okay?” He was muffled by the couch cushions, and for a second Grantaire thought he heard wrong because holy shit, did Enjolras just admit that? “You were right, and I didn’t see it at first but now I do, so thank you for that. I’ve seen the fucking light, Grantaire’s a genius, and now you’ve gotten what you came for and can leave me alone.”Grantaire has never exactly been gentle with Enjolras’ feelings, and it might be time to rethink that approach. Or, in which Enjolras is secretly insecure, Grantaire is not very perceptive, and Combeferre is, of course, always right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I may by eleven million years late for this fandom but when has that ever stopped me before? Here, have some pre-slash I wrote in a single morning.

“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!”

The Café Musain was dead silent, every eye trained on Enjolras as he sprung up out of his seat as if burned. Grantaire couldn’t remember how to breathe. He was frozen, held captive under the full force of Enjolras’ furious, crucifying stare.

He’d pushed Enjolras too far this time, he realized too late. Enjolras’ argument had been shaky to begin with, a rambling treatise on the inadequacies of the Affordable Care Act that couldn’t have even made sense to him by the end of it, but Grantaire had started the argument like always and Enjolras had been determined to finish it. The worst part was, even by Enjolrasian standards, Grantaire knew he was right. Over the course of the discussion he’d somehow gotten them both turned so far around that Grantaire was the one advocating for the freedom to choose. And he’d said so, and Enjolras had bristled as if slapped, and then Grantaire called him Apollo and everything went to shit.

Enjolras’ head whipped around, taking in the rest of the room like a cornered animal gearing up for a fight. Combeferre looked pale, and Grantaire saw Feuilly and Bossuet flinch when Enjolras’ gaze swept over them. Even the tables that didn’t belong to Les Amis had fallen silent, nervous curiosity overtaking their previous conversations. Either that, or the buzzing in Grantaire’s ears was drowning them out.

“I’m leaving,” Enjolras spat. Courfeyrac looked like he was going to get up, then thought better of it, letting Enjolras topple the coatrack by the door as he wrenched his jacket off its hook and stormed out into the night. Grantaire sank into his chair as the ambient noise slowly returned, still trying to process what happened.

Combeferre turned. “You’d better go after him.”

“He might actually kill me,” Grantaire replied. He knew he should follow, but thinking about it was making his hands shake. He’d never seen Enjolras scream like that, never.

“Normally I’d say give him time,” Combeferre said, running one long finger around the rim of Enjolras’ abandoned coffee mug. “But if you do, I don’t think you’re going to like what comes next.”

“What?”

Combeferre looked serious. “Right now, you have about a three-hour window to redeem yourself before that anger crystallizes and he resolves to hate you forever. It’s happened before. You made him vulnerable, Grantaire, and there’s nothing Enjolras hates more than vulnerability.”

“He’s literally going to strangle me.”

Combeferre laughed, humorlessly. “You’ve got like thirty pounds on him, you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Grantaire grumbled to hide the note of panic in his voice. He got up, shrugged his paint-stained hoodie on. Find Enjolras or stay; he liked neither option. But he only had himself to blame for getting into this mess, and if Combeferre was telling the truth (and why would he lie, he never had before) then staying was infinitely worse.

“Keys,” Courfeyrac called, tossing his keyring in Grantaire’s direction. He’d been listening, then. All the Amis were probably watching Grantaire’s next move. “Leave ‘em in the kitchen, Ferre can let me in.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire replied, grateful that Enjolras had roommates. It didn’t seem likely that he’d answer the door himself right now.

“Good luck,” Combeferre said gently.

“Don’t fuck it up!” Eponine called, less gently, as he squared his shoulders and walked out the door.

 

 

Grantaire pushed the door open as quietly as he could. Which was not quiet at all because Enjolras and his two best friends lived in a student ghetto and their apartment door had to be wedged into the doorframe to close properly, most often with a shoulder or a strategic hip-check.

“Before you ask, there is no way in hell I’m-“

Enjolras stopped mid-sentence. He was on the couch with his long legs tucked under him, a pillow clutched in his hands so hard it looked like it was about to rip and explode feathers everywhere. Grantaire just stared, once again unable to move. He’d tried to figure out what to say on the way over, and had come up completely empty-handed. Evidently, deciding to wing it when he got there wasn’t a great plan either.

“Who gave you keys? It was Courfeyrac, wasn’t it.” Enjolras trailed off, muttering darkly under his breath. Grantaire couldn’t hear it but he assumed from Enjolras’ face that it was something about revenge.

“Ap-“ he checked himself. “Enjolras.”

“I heard that. Don’t, just don’t.” Enjolras rolled over, and buried his face in the couch. Grantaire took the opportunity to slip inside and shut the door as best he could. It remained open a crack, even with Grantaire’s back leaning against it, but it seemed sort of ridiculous to worry about that right now.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbled.

“I was wrong, okay?” He was muffled by the couch cushions, and for a second Grantaire thought he heard wrong because holy shit, did Enjolras just admit that? “You were right, and I didn’t see it at first but now I do, so thank you for that. I’ve seen the fucking light, Grantaire’s a genius, and now you’ve gotten what you came for and can leave me alone.”

“That’s not what I came for.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything. The tense silence dragged on, curdling in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach. Combeferre was right, this was a point of no return for them. Grantaire didn’t know whether he and Enjolras were even friends really but after tonight, whatever happened, he was going to know for sure.

“What bothers you about Apollo?”

Grantaire pushed himself off the door and took a seat, cross-legged on the dingy carpet opposite Enjolras’ huddled form. He watched Enjolras stiffen at the familiar nickname. Grantaire didn’t see why, he’d been calling Enjolras Apollo since the start of undergrad and it had never seemed to faze him before.

Enjolras’ face reappeared, and Grantaire was startled to see that the corners of his eyes were wet. He was looking at Grantaire like he couldn’t believe anyone could be that stupid. Grantaire didn’t know why he deserved a look like that, but whatever the reason, he probably did deserve it.

“Really?” Enjolras said, venomous. “You don’t know?”

Grantaire just shook his head. He felt like he was missing something obvious, and there was no point in denying it now.

Enjolras swiped angrily at his eyes. “Has it never occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t want to be compared to a literal god?”

Grantaire blinked. “Uh. I still don’t get it.”

“Jesus Christ, R.” Enjolras covered his face with one hand, like Grantaire’s mere presence was giving him a migraine. “You haven’t realized you’ve been mocking me for nearly two years?” He barked out a laugh, harsh and bordering on hysterical. “Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.”

“Okay you’ve going to have to explain better because I’m sorry, I’m really sorry if I hurt your feelings but I honestly have no idea what I did.”

Enjolras didn’t speak for a minute. Grantaire pulled at loose threads in the carpet, feeling like he was waiting for his own execution. He made himself stay where he was, rooted to the spot. Guilt, shame, he didn’t even know why yet but he felt it cropping up in his chest. This was going to be a bad night, and he couldn’t even stop at the liquor store on his way home because it would be closed by now. Maybe he’d get lucky and Enjolras would try to throw something at his head, so at least someone else would try to beat up Grantaire. If Enjolras didn’t, that job would once again fall to himself, and he was quite good at it by now.

“I’m not-“ Enjolras coughed, trying to clear his throat. He was quite obviously crying but Grantaire could at least do him the favour of pretending not to notice.

“I’m not perfect, asshole,” Enjolras finished. It was by far the shortest answer Grantaire had ever gotten to any question he posed to Enjolras, which probably meant that Enjolras didn’t trust his own voice enough to elaborate.

“I never said you were,” Grantaire said softly. Which was maybe a lie but it felt like the right thing to say.

Turns out, it was the wrong thing to say.

“Oh my god are you actually trying to deny it, holy hell Grantaire all you do is call me perfect!” Enjolras was off the couch in a flash, his throw pillow flying up to bounce off Combeferre’s desk. Hopefully Ferre didn’t need that giant stack of papers in order.

Enjolras grabbed the lapels of Grantaire’s hoodie and yanked him forward, his face a red mess of tears. “You do not get to deny this, you do not get to say you’ve treated me with respect when an hour ago you were tearing me apart in front of all of my friends, so stop, okay, just STOP!”

“But you do that to me all the time!” Grantaire knew he was an absolute idiot to protest right now, but it was kind of true. Enjolras did make a habit of ridiculing him in public when he could.

Enjolras sniffed, eyes ablaze and shining with unshed tears. “Yeah, when I’m right, which is like fifteen percent of the time at best! You get the other eighty-five, can’t you be happy with that?”

Grantaire was genuinely confused. “Eighty-five? Since when do I _ever_ win our arguments?”

Enjolras let his hands drop, twisting them forcefully together in his lap. “Just because I don’t give up doesn’t mean you haven’t won. What do you expect, a formal concession? Should I be getting on my knees and begging your forgiveness every time you find fault in something I say?”

“No.” He should apologize now. This was more than he ever got from Enjolras, and it was terrifying.

“Well good, ‘cause I won’t!”

“I didn’t realize you actually listened to me that much,” Grantaire said softly.

“I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t,” said Enjolras. “You are, after all, way smarter than I am.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up a second. Where is this coming from?”

Enjolras looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Wait what?”

Grantaire tried again. “Since when am _I_ smarter than _you_?”

“Since ever? Always?” Enjolras looked at his hands. “Since you called me a trumped-up idealist who’s only capable of thinking in black-and-white and wake up, sweetie, the world doesn’t work that way?”

Enjolras’ lip started to wobble again. Grantaire put a hand on his thigh, and Enjolras jerked back.

“When did I say that?” Grantaire asked, because honestly, he had zero memory of ever being _that_ harsh.

“I dunno, like three months ago?”

“I didn’t mean it.”

Enjolras glared. “You seemed to, at the time.”

“Then I was probably drunk off my ass because that isn’t true, and I wouldn’t have said it sober.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Enjolras, I don’t believe that.” He wanted to hug him, wanted to pull Enjolras in and _convince_ him that Grantaire didn’t see him that way. It hurt like a punch to the gut, knowing he was the one who had made Enjolras this upset.

“You’re not wrong, though.” Enjolras scrubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater, leaving big, dark streaks of dampness behind. “I _do_ think in black and white, I _do_ fail to consider all the consequences. I frequently get ahead of myself, trying to fight for the cause, and if I didn’t have you to pull me back all the time I’d probably end up trampling over twice as many rights and freedoms as I can save.”

“Apol- fuck, sorry. Enjolras. You’re nineteen, you’re not supposed to have all the answers yet. You’re only one person, and in nineteen years you’ve done more for civil rights than fifty regular people get done in a lifetime.”

“You think so?” Enjolras chewed on his lip, waiting for Grantaire to answer. With his face blotchy like that, and his blond curls escaping his hair tie in a halo of golden frizz, he looked years younger and a hundred times less intimidating than usual.

“Oh my god, of course I do.” Now he had his opening. Grantaire pulled Enjolras in for a bear hug, and Enjolras went willingly. “You have beliefs and you actually do something about them, you bring all of your friends together…”

“Sorry I called them ‘mine’ before,” Enjolras said. “They’re your friends too.”

“I know.” Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras was the taller of the two, but he still felt light and tiny in Grantaire’s arms. He’d never hugged Enjolras before, and Grantaire was sort of surprised at how easy it felt, how well they fit together.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a massive dick,” Grantaire said, half into Enjolras’ hair. His shampoo smelled like coconuts.

“Thanks,” Enjolras said drily.

“No, I mean it. I like hanging out with you, and in return I’ve been insulting you constantly and I didn’t even realize it, god. No wonder you hate me.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “I’m literally curled up in your lap right now, that’s not really something I do with people I hate.”

Grantaire’s face heated up in an instant. “Point taken,” he squeaked.

Enjolras sighed, and leaned into Grantaire’s chest. “It just gets to me, sometimes.”

“What?”

“I mean…” Enjolras paused, choosing his words. “It’s already kind of terrible, how much we just can’t do. There’s so much change I want to see in the world and there’s what, a dozen of us? I know there are more at the rallies too, and I’m happy about the turnouts but it’s hardly going to rearrange this entire fucked-up system. And if I can’t even make the right call on my own, everyone’s waiting for me to decide what Les Amis are going to do next and what if it’s the wrong thing? What if we’re wasting our time? Or worse, we’re trying to help and it causes people to suffer?”

“I think you’re always going to take that risk,” Grantaire said thoughtfully, stroking Enjolras’ back through his thin sweater. “You’re always going to have doubts, and they’re good, they make you think harder about what you’re doing. But that’s what’s different about you, Enjolras. Most people let the risks stop them from doing anything at all. You don’t, and that’s something to be proud of.”

Enjolras sniffed. “You sound like Combeferre,” he said.

“And when has Combeferre ever been wrong?” Grantaire countered, earning a small, wet laugh out of Enjolras. “No, I’m serious. I’m, like, in awe of you most of the time.”

Enjolras hid his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

“Any time, chief.”

“Why Apollo then?” Enjolras’ hand came up to fiddle with the ties on Grantaire’s hoodie. “If not to point out my imperfections?”

“Um.” Grantaire exhaled. “Because you have none?”

“Right,” said Enjolras sarcastically, “because tonight is certainly evidence of that.”

“Okay, granted, not exactly. You’re not _perfect_ perfect, I get that, nobody is. But you’re pretty much as close as it gets.”

Enjolras snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey!”

“Thank you for thinking so highly of me. I had no idea. But yeah, you’re not as smart as I thought you were if you think I’m anywhere near human perfection.”

Grantaire tightened his arms around Enjolras. “That’s subjective,” he grumbled.

“Aww!”

Both Enjolras and Grantaire looked up at the same time. Someone on the other side of Enjolras’ front door swore under his breath, someone who sounded suspiciously like Courfeyrac.

“COURF!” Enjolras yelled, right in Grantaire’s ear. He fell back on his elbows, startled, and by the time Combeferre was opening the door Enjolras was out of his lap and striding toward the entrance with murder in his eyes.

Grantaire would be lying if he said he didn’t immediately miss the warmth of Enjolras’ body in his arms.

“We just got here,” Combeferre was saying, “and for the record, it wasn’t my idea to spy on you two but the door was kind of open, so.”

Courfeyrac managed to duck into the apartment, dancing out of the way of Enjolras’ grasp. “Now kiss!” he sang, before slamming his bedroom door shut. Enjolras tried the knob, then banged on the door furiously, but Courfeyrac wasn’t _completely_ stupid and didn’t re-emerge.

“I should go,” Grantaire muttered, hoping Enjolras wouldn’t turn and see how flame-red his face must be.

He heard Enjolras suck in a breath, but the moment was over, and all he said was goodbye.

 

Combeferre walked him out, stopping Grantaire at the entrance with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Confession time,” Combeferre said, “we didn’t _just_ get there, exactly.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “How long?”

“Fucking unbelievable was the first thing I heard.” Combeferre shoved his hands in his pockets, a bit sheepishly.

Grantaire swallowed. “A while, then.”

“Point is, you did well.” Combeferre smiled. “Even for me, it’s rare to hear him talk that openly.”

“I feel like such a shithead,” Grantaire admitted.

“So it took a while to figure it out, that doesn’t matter. You know each other better now, you can fix it going forward.”

Grantaire stared at the floor. “He deserves better from me.”

“And you’ll do better in the future. Now go home,” Combeferre said, steering him towards the door. “Get some rest, we’ll see you at the next meeting.”

Grantaire stopped on the front steps and turned back. “Thanks, ‘Ferre. I hope you’re right.”

Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled fondly at Grantaire. “As you keep saying, I always am.”

 

///

 

“Apollo!”

Enjolras looked down from his perch at the top of the ladder, holding one corner of their giant banner in place. Grantaire was staring up at him from the grass, guitar case strapped to his back, shielding his eyes against the midday sun. As the days got longer his freckles were coming out more and more, like mobile constellations on his expressive face.

“Dionysus,” Enjolras drawled, hoping he didn’t sound as stupidly happy to see Grantaire as he felt. “Glad you could finally join us.”

Grantaire blinked for a second, processing the unexpected nickname, then broke into a broad, lopsided grin. “God of wine? You must think so little of me.”

“Wait, am I sensing a theme here?” asked Jehan, popping up out of nowhere with a giant rubber mallet in hand. They passed it up to Enjolras so he could nail the banner in place. “Who do I get to be?”

“Hermes?” Enjolras offered.

“Ohmygod yes!” Jehan said, beaming. “Wing shoes? Sign me the fuck up!”

“Is Combeferre Athena?” Courfeyrac called from the other side of the banner, arms straining to hold it up high enough as he waited for Enjolras’ mallet.

“Athena? Alright, I’ll take it,” Combeferre said placidly from his place at the bottom of Courf’s ladder.

“I’m totally Zeus,” Courfeyrac added.

“You are not,” said Combeferre. “More like Narcissus.”

“Or a satyr,” Grantaire supplied. “He’s tiny, hairy, he’d run around naked if he could, and he’s mischievous as all hell.”

Courfeyrac shot him a horribly offended look. Combeferre had to lean on the ladder for support, he was laughing so hard.

“I think you broke him,” said Enjolras, grinning down at Grantaire. Grantaire grinned back, brighter than the sun above him.

“I brought my guitar,” said Grantaire as Enjolras descended back to the ground. “I don’t really know any protest songs, but give me five minutes and an internet connection and I can probably figure out passable chords for some Bob Dylan.”

“Sounds good, but can you do Taylor Swift? Because _someone_ ,” he said with a pointed look in Courfeyrac’s direction, “is of the opinion that break-up songs are equally good for stirring up public dissent.”

“Oh come on,” Courfeyrac whined, “give me one good reason Bad Blood isn’t perfect for this!”

“Boys, boys, there is time enough for both.” Grantaire shrugged the case off his back and unzipped it. He pulled the guitar strap over his head. Enjolras frowned, then stepped back to read Grantaire’s slanted handwriting.

“This machine kills capitalism?” said Enjolras, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“In sharpie, too,” Grantaire replied. “That shit’s never coming off.”

“You know, Grantaire,” he said with a careful smirk, “one could almost think you believe in something.”

Grantaire smiled that gorgeous, crooked smile of his. He tested out a chord. “You know, Apollo, I almost might.”

 

 

_I ain’t lookin’ to compete with you_

_Beat or cheat or mistreat you_

_Simplify you, classify you_

_Deny, defy or crucify you_

_All I really want to do_

_Is, baby, be friends with you_

“All I Really Want To Do” – Bob Dylan

**Author's Note:**

> Time spent writing < time spent sifting through Bob Dylan songs for an adequate title. 
> 
> And for the record, if you love yourself, do not think about canon-era Enjoltaire while listening to Chimes of Freedom. Just don’t. Or do, and cry with me.


End file.
